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1897 
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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

Chap. Copyright No, 

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UNITED STATES OP AMERICA. 



Idle Songs 



AND 



Idle Sonnets 



BY / 

HARRISON CONRARD 




CINCINNATI, OHIO 

THE EDITOR PUBLISHING COMPANY 

1897 



L^n^ 



1852 



OOPTRIGHT, 1897 
BY HARRISON CONRARD 



IDLE SONGS AND IDLE SONNETS 



AD PATBEM. 



Thy hand upled me o^er the rugged stee}), 

Through intricate j^aths, to the serener air, 
Where all the tipland fields are clothed in fair, 

Capacious suns; nor didst thou quail, though deep 

The tempests thundered near, but through the sweep 
Oftvind and flood, breasting the storm, didst bear 
Thee on, till we the hights attained, and there, 

Thy task consumed, thy tired lids drooi^ed in sleep. 

O if the flowers, plucked wild, ivhich thee I bring, 
Could 7nake thy pilloiv sweeter, every thorn 

That tore my flesh inj^lucking ivoidd be siveet! 

But I behold my sirnple offering, 

And, all thy broiv uniuorthy to adorn, 

I can bid strew them at thy hcdloived feet. 



CONTENTS. 



Page 

A Picture Book 9 

Maggie Driving Home the Cows 12 

Tlie Stars 15 

Tlie Christmas Hymn 17 

The Old College Bell 21 

A Tribute to Washington 24 

The Hanghig of the Sword 27 

The Smithy 29 

To a Broken Lute 31 

A Little While 31 

A Life 32 

Through the Long Night 34 

What Matter? 36 

The Cry of the Toiler 38 

The Cry of the Unemployed 40 

God's Voice and Man's 42 

A Woman's Faith 43 

A Fragment . • 44 

My Troubadour 47 

Lines . 49 



VI CONTENTS. 

Page 

The Shepherdess' Song 50 

Barcarolle 51 

Boat Song 53 

Maurine 54 

She Sang To Me 56 

Donald so True 57 

Marjorie 58 

A Kentucky Sunrise , 60 

A Kentucky Sunset . . 60 

The Rose and the Thorn , 61 

The Winter's Tale 62 

Thou Art so Fair 64 

I Love But Thee 65 

Low, Low 66 

Autumn 68 

Death of Day 69 

A Thought 71 

God-Seeking 72 

Legend of the White Rose 73 

An Abandoned Place 77 

That was May ......... 79 

In Solitude 81 

The Nativity 88 

Gethsemane 90 



CONTENTS. Vii 

Page 

Easter Morn 91 

Audubon 92 

Dreams 93 

Mob-Fury 94 

The Tempest's Voice 95 

The Soul's Progress 96 

Moonrise : Among the Mountains 97 

The Two Children 98 

To a Graduate 99 

The Absent One . 100 

Thought's Infinity 101 

If This Were all of Life 102 

The Priceless Gift 103 

A Thought of Death 104 

A Dead Sun 105 

At Death 106 

The Hour of Prayer 107 

A First Love 108 

Her Eyes 109 

Thine Image was Anear 110 

Love and Life Ill 

An Idle Moment 112 

Night's Prelude 113 

The Passing of Summer 114 



10 IDLE SONGS AND IDLE SONNETS. 

But a gathering mist obscures it, and I close my languid 

ej^es. 
While from out the past a vision, like a wraith, I see arise. 

I see two lips a-laughing above a muslin gown ; 

I see two eyes a-sparkling beneath her tresses brown ; 

And I hear her childish prattle as she climbs my knee to 

look 
Upon the gaudy colors of that little picture book. 

I turn the leaves in silence. Each picture bears a trace 
Of childish grief or gladness which time can ne'er erase. 
This one in fancied sorrow she blotted with her tears, 
And here the marks of fingers, preserved through all the 
years ; 

This one is thumbed and ragged, and its dwarfs and giants 

tell 
How it held her soul enraptured with a fascinating spell. 
I glance back o'er my shoulder for a pair of twinkling eyes ; 
I listen for her laughter, and her ''Ah !" of glad surprise ; 

I pause to hear the clapping of her hands in sweet delight, 
And I wait to feel the pressure of her arms around me 

tight. 
O what a cheat is fancy ! I watch and wait in vain. 
For vanished is my vision and it will not come again. 

'Tis gone from me forever ! and the voice of my despair 
Cries out against the anguish that my soul was doomed to 

bear; 
But the wind alone gives answer, and its melancholy wail 
Seems the voice of frighted goblins, flying, dying on the 

gale. 



THE PICTURE BOOK. 11 

I look into the fireplace, but it mocks my withered heart 
With its ash beneath the embers; while the rain, with 

sudden start, 
Beats hard against my window, like the tears I scarce can 

brook. 
Falling fast upon the pages of that little picture book. 



MAGGIE DRIVING HOME THE COWS. 



Golden is the noon of summer, 

And the crimson bm-st of dawn 
Glows across the fairest meadows 

Ever sun-gleam fell upon. 
Clear the lark and sweet the robin 

Pour their greeting to the morn^ 
And the saucy blackbird chirrups, 

Swinging on the tasseled corn ; 
But the notes of one glad carol 

All the sleepy meadows rouse, 
'Tis the voice of Maggie singing, 

Maggie driving home the cows — 
Little Maggie, 
Barefoot Maggie, 

Maggie driving home the cows. 

Through the sweet grass and the clover, 

Sparkling in the glint of morn, 
Down along the dark-green hedge-rows, 

'Tween the fields of nodding corn, 
With her blue sunbonnet swinging 

Careless o'er her sunburnt arm, 
And the shaggy shepherd near her, 

Trips the fairy of the farm, 
Urging on the lazy heifer 

12 



MAGGIE DRIVING HOME THE OOWS. 18 

That has turned aside to browse, 
Singing ''Ho!" and ''Hey, my Silky!" 
As she drives the lowing cows — 

Little Maggie, 

Sunburnt Maggie, 
Maggie driving home the cows. 

Sunshine, sunshine all around her, 

Sunshine in her waving liair. 
Sunshine in lier eyes, and sunsliine 

In eacli cadence of her air ; 
And the dew that hems her garments 

Flashes o'er the meadow-lawn. 
Like a million lustrous jewels. 

Sparkling in the flusli of dawn. 
Sunshine — all the world is sunshine 

When her notes the meadows rouse, 
Swelling from the crimson clover 

As she liomeward drives the cows — 
Little Maggie, 
Bright-eyed Maggie, 

Maggie driving home the cows. 

Simi^le youth and simple beauty, 

All in innocence arrayed ! 
Sweeter dew and sweeter sunshine 

Never kissed a sweeter maid ! 
And I look along the hedge-rows, 

O'er the clover and the corn. 
Where the maiden comes a-singing 

In the golden burst of morn. 
And before that child of sunshine 

All my soul in rapture bows, 
Gladdened with the joy she bringeth, 



14 IDIiE SONGS AND IDLE SONNETS. 

Driving, driving home the cows- 
Little Maggie, 
Light-heart Maggie, 

Maggie driving home the cows. 



THE STARS. 



Child, upon thy mother's knee, 

Gazing yonder through the night, 

Why thy burst of baby glee? 
Why thy rapturous delight? 

Stars? Athwart the evening skies 

Countless glittering orbs are spread : 

What are they unto thine eyes 

That have Wisdom's page ne'er read? 

Coyly then the little girl 

Answer lisps in baby tone: 
'•Some are gem and some are pearl 

Strewn from God's celestial throne, 

'•Some are angels' laughing eyes 

Peeping down from Heaven's blue, 

Some are holes in Paradise, 

All its glories leaking through!" 

Simple child ! In books grown old, 
I search deep the boundless night. 

And in each fair star behold 

Some majestic sun, whose light, 

16 



16 IDLE SONCxS AND IDLE SONNETS. 

On its circling planets shed, 

Feeds them with life's warmth: and so, 
From night's faintest glowworms, spread 

O'er the firmament, there grow 

Suns on myriad suns, sublime 
In harmonious motion, one 

Far to one in cadenced time 

Right saluting, sun to sun, — 

Spheres on myriad spheres, each true 

Unto its appointed course. 
Worlds on worlds that reach into 

Universe on universe, — 

System round vast system, till 
All the glorious firmament 

Finds its center in the will 
Of the One Omnipotent. 

So the child, and so do I 

God's sublime creation scan; 

And I wonder, musingly. 

Which is happier, child or man? 



THE CHRISTMAS HYMN. 



Down through the cold, bleak valley 

A pilgrim walked — alone ; 
But the wind came up to greet him. 

And a tremulous star that shone 
The loveliest and the fairest 

Amid the orbs of night, 
Sent down a gleam to cheer him 

And to pave his way with light. 

Around, the glinting snow-dunes 

Stretched in their cold embrace, 
And the eddying crystals drifted 

Up in his thin, pinched face ; 
Close drew his cloa^k about him, 

But the fiends of the gale danced near. 
And they clutched at his rags in their revel, 

And hissed in his frighted ear. 

''O woe is me!" he muttered, 

And his thin lips moved in prayer — 
Lips that had long been silent 

To aught save a soul's despair. 
•'But courage, faint heart!" he whispered. 

''And strength, weak limbs!" he cried; 
"For I draw me anear the cloister 

Where the holy monks abide. 

17 



18 IDLE SONGS AND IDLE SONNETS, 

"Once I, in cowl and habit, 

Prayed in that convent cell ; 
And the grace of God was with me, 

Till I harked to a voice of hell: 
I rose from my couch while the convent 

Was wrapped in its holy sleep. 
And, stealing forth in the midnight. 

Went far from its hallowed keep, 

''AH up and down I have wandered 

The ways and the haunts of men, 
Till my soul is sick with sinning 

And it longs for peace again. 
I come, with a heart all burdened. 

To fall at Thy holy shrine, 
And again I would say, sweet Master, 

I am Thine— I am Thine— I am Thine !' 

His voice grew faint and fainter, 

And his palsied step grew slow ; ' 
While fierce howled the gale about him, 

And deep piled the drifting snow. 
''Help— me— God!" and he staggered 

As he lifted his voice in prayer: 
But his wail was of one faint crying 

In the wilderness of despair. 

A step— a moan — a struggle. 

And he sank on the blasted wold j 
And a stealing sleep came o'er him, 

Banishing pain and cold. 
All still— all still— all quiet. 

And the wind bore the snowdrifts near: 
When, up from the valley wafted, 

A faint sound, sweet and clear. 



THE CHRISTMAS HYMN. 19 

Fell on his struggling spirit 

Like a calm on a troubled sea, 
And swelled from a drowsy echo 

To a wondrous melody. 
'Twas the midnight Mass ; and the fathers. 

In the convent chapel dim, 
Round the lowly crib were gathered, 

Chanting a Christmas hymn. 

"■The monks! the monks!'' he faltered, 

As borne on the wings of night 
Came up the song from the convent; 

^'The monks! the monks! and the light 
That yonder shines in the valley, 

Though mine eyes but see it dim. 
Is the beacon-star of the cloister 

Whence cometh the Christmas hymn. 

''Help — me — God!" and he lifted 

His wasted form from the ground ; 
And the gale swept by unheeded 

As the narrow path he found. 
''I am coming soon," he muttered, 

"Though faint is thy beacon-light, 
I come, good Father Prior, 

To join thy hymn to-night!" 

Up, up to the arching heavens 

He lifted his glassy eyes. 
And the one fair star looked on him 

From the depths of the wintry skies; 
Down the heavy way he bore him 

To the convent gray and grim. 
While sweeter and fuller and stronger 

Grew the strains of the Christmas hymn. 



20 IDLE SONGS AND IDLE SONNETS. 

'^Again, again!" he whispered, 

"I am Thine, my Master, Thine 1 
Once more to Thy bosom take me. 

And Thy will shall e'er be mine ! 
I come, good Brother Porter, 

Though my heart is black with sin. 
Let the convent gate swing open. 

Let the wandering pilgrim in ! 

''I come! I come!" and he tottered 

Up to the massive gate. 
And his hand was upon the knocker : 

But it fell like a leaden weight. 
While forth from the convent chapel 

Came the joyous strains again. 
And he sank on the cold, white granite 

As they sang, ''Amen! Amen!" 

'Twas there that the good monks found him 

On that Christmas morn — alone ; 
With a snow-shroud wound about him. 

His lips to the convent stone. 
The novices, praying o'er him. 

Asked, ''Who can it be? ah, who?" 
But the gray old Father Prior, 

He knew — he knew — he knew. 



THE OLD COLLEGE BELL. 



Where now are the days that with song and with story 

We hallow Life's fairest, my brothers! to-night? 
Gone — gone like a dream of ineffable glory 

That fades ere we grasp its full meed of delight. 
What left they? A circlet of splendor whose glamour 

Reflects its effulgence o'er Time's fleeting years, 
A faint, waking echo of Youth's merry clamor, 

That, mellow as music, now falls on our ears. 
Soft cometh the sound, like the cadence upwingiiig 

Indistinct in the eve from the hush of the dell ; 
But out o'er the murmurs one clear voice is ringing, 

'Tis the musical voice of the old college bell. 

Is it real? is it dream? is it truth? is it fancy? 

A dream that a sudden awaking will blast? 
Or is it the wand of some w^eird necromancy 

That waves o'er the Present and makes it the Past? 
More subtle 'tis one than the wizards who vaunted 

Their charins where the green waves of Araby roll : 
'Tis Memory's finger, with magic enchanted, 

That wakens the echoes deep down in the soul; 
And Memory waves her fair wand and she bringeth 

The Past from his tomb with her all-potent spell. 
And a song from the seal she has broken outringeth — 

'Tis the silvery song of the old college bell. 

21 



22 IDLE SONGS AND IDLE SONNETS. 

Sweet, sweet was its voice, clear the language it rang in: 

But who could translate it? what youth understand? 
And true was the musical meter it sang in : 

But who e'er its wonderful anapests scanned? 
''Come scale patient Learning's declivitous mountain, 

The deep, yawning caverns of Knowledge explore ; 
Come quaff of the nectars of Wisdom's fair fountain, 

And drink of the sweets of Pierian lore ; 
Come forth in the green fields of Labor and Duty, 

Draw deep from the waters of Science's well; 
Come dight all thy soul in a mantle of beauty!" 

So sang through the decades the old college bell. 

So sang it — so rang it: who heeded its warning? 

What recked we if Time never paused in his flight? 
We greeted its call with dismay in the morning. 

And hailed its last stroke with a shout of delight. 
But alas, came a morn w^hen we woke but to number 

Youth's hours with the hours that can ne'er again be, 
Like the maiden adrift who awoke from her slumber 

To find all her jewels lost, lost in the sea. 
But high burned the hopes in our bosoms when parting 

Upon us a blessing beneficent fell, 
And cheered was our step on Life's stern journey starting 

By the God-speeds that rang from the old college bell. 

No more from its place by the doorway it swingeth : 

Its duty is ended, its labors are o'er; 
No more to the matin prayers calling it ringeth. 

For the ending of Youth's daily task — nevermore; 
And hands that oft swayed it are folded to never 

Lift up till Life's Angel shall sound his decree, 
But the song that it sang will ring on and forever. 

As long as the Sons of Loyola shall be ; 



THE OLD COLLEGE BELL. 23 

And the years they ^Yill come, and the decades, and ages, 
And ages to far-reaching eons will swell, 

But naught shall be sweeter to poets and sages 

Than the song that was sung by the old college bell. 

Gone — gone are the days that with song and with story 

We hallow the fairest Time brought in his flight; 
But around them there liovers a halo whose glory 

With each i^assing year grows more lustrous and bright; 
And oft when deep, gathering glooms rise before us. 

And along the steep journey uncertain we stray. 
One hand waves a benison solemnly o'er us 

And guides us aright up the starlitten way; 
And oft when from dreams that were fairest we tear us. 

And long-cherished hopes bid our bosoms farewell. 
One voice echoes forth in full cadence to cheer us — 

'Tis the sweet, hallowed voice of the old college bell. 



A TRIBUTE TO WASHINGTON. 



A voice like a turbulent tempest 

Rose up from the West World new ; 
At first 'twas a tremulous whisper, 

But it grew and it swelled and it grew, 
Till over the deep it thundered, 

Sped on by a West World gale, 
And it made an empire tremble 

And the cheeks of a king grow pale. 

For it said : ''We are tired of bondage 

To a monarch over the sea ; 
Our hearts are the hearts of freemen, 

And our loved land must be free ; 
We will none of a tyrant's scepter, 

But will build us a goodly state 
Where, 'none shall rule but the humble,' 

And the lowly shall be great!" 

Then forth from a myriad scabbards 

Flashed a myriad swords in the light 
That burst with the dawning of freedom 

O'er the gloom of the sullen night ; 
And the hands that had rent their shackles 

Leapt up with the gleaming swords. 
And the steel of freemen glistened 

In the ranks of the tyrant's hordes. 

24 



A TRIBUTE TO WASHINGTON. 

But they trembled at thought of their weakness, 

And the hopes in their breasts grew dark; 
And they yearned for the sword's unsheathing 

That would touch at the quivering spark 
Of hope that was not yet smothered ; 

When lo ! like the orient sun 
That bursts o'er a lingering darkness, 

Flashed the sword of Washington ! 

O sword of the New World Spartan, 

That gleamed in the dawning light 
That came with the birth of freedom, 

And struck at the tyrant's might, 
And cheering the hopes that wavered, 

Led the conquering armies on — 
To thee bow a grateful people, 

O sword of Washington ! 

In the feverish heat of the battle, 

In the cheerless cold of the camp. 
Where the hearts of the bravest faltered. 

In the march's weary tramp. 
That sword cheered the ragged heroes, 

Till over the wintry sea 
They drove the tyrant's minions— 

And the Land of the West was free ! 

Then up rose a grateful people. 

And they brought a signet ring; 
And they cried, ''All hail to the monarch! 

Washington shall be king!" 
But he said, ''I would have no scepter; 

Let us build us a goodly state. 
Where 'none shall rule but the humble,' 

And the lowly shall be great!" 



26 



36 IDLE SONGS AND IDLE SONNETS. 

Peace spread o'er the land her pinions, 

And out of the glorious West 
There rose the New World nation, 

With virtue and liberty blest. 
They bowed to no tyrant's scepter. 

But they builded a goodly state, 
Where ''none shall rule but the humble,'! 

And the lowly shall be great ! 



THE HANGING OF THE SWORD. 



I will hang thee, my sword, on the mouldering wall, 
In the scabbard I'll sheathe thee, lest God's holy light, 

Unstained and untainted, upon thee should fall, 
Tliou emblem of Wrong and thou weapon of Right. 

Out of Evil thou sprungest, incarnate of Pride ; 

Oppression has whetted thy keen, gleaming blade; 
And Avarice flung thee in glee by lier side. 

To further the aims of her gluttonous trade. 

In the van of her cohorts base Tyranny bore 
Thee down through the vale on lier mission of hate : 

'Twas slie who baptized thee in innocent gore. 
And the soil of our fatliers with crimson did sate. 

But Right snatched the steel from her insolent hand. 
As in conflict they met on the red-glutted plain. 

And smote her and drove her base hordes from the land, 
While strewn were the slopes and the meads with her slain 

Accurs'd was the steel, born of Hatred and Hell, 
With its blade ever stamped with the birtlimark of shame 

But upon it the blood of a patriot fell. 
And pure as tlie sin-shriven child it became. 

27 



ZH IDLE SONGS AND IDLE SONNETS. 

►Sweet, sweet was thy service, () sword of my sire ! 

By the hand that was rig-hteous thou ever wert swayed ! 
And when Treason waved o'er us her weapon of ire, 

In the scabbard ne'er sheathed was thy glittering blade ! 

But now I will hide thee — thy service is done : 
And the rust will encrust tliee and cover thee o'er, 

Till the blood-stains of battle which thee are upon 
Gaunt Time's wrinkled hand shall efface evermore. 

God grant War is dead ! Ah ! but Wrong never dies : 
And cankerous Passion burns deep in the breast : 

But if the black visage of War should arise 
On the coast, on the plain, or the mountain's tall crest, 

I will snatch thee, my sword, from the mouldering wall, 
I will whet thee, and temper with flame and with fire. 

And then in her need if my country should call, 
O serve me, sweet blade ! as thou once served my sire ! 



THE SMITHY. 



Blow! Blow! Blow! 
O list to the bellows blowing, 
Fanning the coals, softly glowing! 
While the blacksmith stands 
With his brawny hands, 
Watching the metal glinting and bright. 

Ready to grasp 'tween the jaws of his tongs. 
When the heat in the forge has turned it to white, 
While he gaily sings his favorite songs. 
O gaily he sings, 
And the sledge that he swings 
Is beating the time 
To his tuneful rhyme. 
Merrily ! 
Merrily ! 

Ding! Ding! Ding! 
O list to the song of the metal I 
O hark to the din and the rattle. 
As the smith's hammer beats 
'Gainst the iron mass and sheets. 
While the sparks fly away at every blow, 

Scintillant, gleaming, and glinting, and bright, 
Falling in showers from the metal aglow, 

And filling the smithy with flakelets of light. 



80 IDIiE SONGS AND IDLE SONNETS. 

O gaily he swings 
His sledge as he sings, 
Beating the time 
To his musical rhyme, 

Cheerily ! 

Cheerily ! 

Clang! Clang! Clang! 
O list to the anvil ringing ! 
O hark to the blacksmith singing 
His merry song 
The whole day long, 
As his hammer falls on the shapeless steel. 

Welding and beating and turning to form. 
Beating it, though it never can feel. 

Like the wild sea is lashed at the will of the storm, 
O gaily he sings. 
And the sledge that ho swings 
Is beating the time 
To his tuneful rhyme, 
Merrily ! 
Merrily ! 



:x 



TO A BROKEN LUTE. 



O silent effigy of Song, 

Speak through thy shattered strings 
Doth cold forgetfulness belong 

To the warm heart that sings? 
Ah, when the poor, mute chords around 

My broken lute entwine. 
If in one heart one note be found, 

What recompense were mine ! 



A LITTLE WHILE. 



A little while, and then my toil is ended ; 

And when my task seems long, the pathway steep, 
I think of one who has before ascended 

And on the quiet suminit lies asleep. 

A little while — and lo, the end is nighing! 

Heartaches shall cease, heart-chords shall bind anew; 
Two heads shall rest where now but one is lying, 

J'our hands shall clasp where now there are but two. 

31 



A LIFE. 



I saw her when a child at play, 

A sweet young child, so wondrous fair^ 
How could my heart be else than gay 

When I beheld her golden hair? 
Childlike she toyed the young rose tree, 

Unblown, that in the garden stood ; 
And for the day I sighed when she 

Would bloom to perfect womanhood. 

Time turned the child a maiden soon ; 

I saw her then, her golden hair 
Wreathed with the merry flowers of June ; 

Ah, never June seemed half so fair, 
And never flower as sweet as she. 

Just budding into womanhood : 
I looked, and saw the young rose tree 

Had ventured forth a perfect bud. 

I saw her on her wedding day, 

And never was a bride more fair I 
I prayed that time would make their way 

As golden as the young bride's hair. 
Care fled before her smile's warm glow — 

Does not the sunshine melt the snows? 
I saw the young rose tree, and lol 

Its bud had burst a perfect rose ! 

32 



A LIFE. 38 

I saw her soon in sorrow's hour ; 

'Twas ere a twelvemonth passed, and ere. 
I ween, the tropic bridal flower 

Had withered in her golden hair. 

child ! who stole tliy smiles from thee? 

The gladness of thy wedding hour? 
[ looked upon the young rose tree. 

And saw a drooping, wasted flower. 

1 saw her next in death's array ; 

I knew her by her golden hair ; 
All else had sorrow swei3t awaj^. 

But left that mark of beauty there. 
Was this the child I saw at play, 

The child with ra^diant smiles aglow? 
The maiden of that bright June day? 

The bride of but a year ago? 

I looked upon that pallid brow : 

Nay, nay, it is not she ! I sware. 
I looked again and wept : for liow 

Could I mistake that golden hair? 
Once more I saw the young rose tree ; 

'Twas stripped of leaf and stripped of blooiu ; 
The withered petals swept by me, 

And, wind-tossed, drifted o'er her tond). 



THROUGH THE LONG NIGHT. 



Through the long, deep night I see her, 

All through the long, long night, 
Moving among the shadows 

With a noiseless step and light. 
Smoothing my pain-tossed pillow, 

Soothing my burning cheek 
With her gentle touch, and kissing 

My hand so weak, so weak! 

Through the long, dread night I watch her 

About my chamber glide ; 
And if her cares should take her 

For a moment from my side, 
I turn on my fevered pillow 

Her parting step to hear. 
And I cling to her shadow, yearning 

Ever to have her near. 

Through the long, still night I hear her 

As she moveth to and fro > 
And I list to the prayer so fervent 

That she murmurs soft and low — 
The prayer that is breathed in whisper^ 

Yet is heard, I know, on high : 
"Dear God," as my cheek she kisses^ 

''Do not let my poor child die I" 

34 



THROUGH THE LONG NIGHT. 35 

Through the long, lone night she hovers 

Like an angel round my couch, 
And my joain and anguish vanish 

When I feel her gentle touch ; 
And when my hair, all tangled, 

By her soft hand is caress'd 
My brow no more is fevered. 

And I sweetly sink to rest. 

Through the long, deep night, my mother! 

All through the long, long night, 
In my fitful dreams I see thee 

And hear thee, spirit of light! 
O vision of love, whose whisper 

Maketh my a,nguish cease. 
Through the long night thou art near me, 

And thy presence bringeth peace ! 

And then as I rest and the vision 

Still lingereth near in my dreams, 
And I hear her tireless footstep, 

And I feel her kiss, it seems 
That I see through the far blue heavens 

The Perfect One above, 
Who alone hath the power to fathom 

The depths of a mother's love. 



WHAT MATTER? 



What matter though the dreary night 

With darkness should obscure my way? 

Thy tender eyes— their sweet fires ligiit 
My life with never-ending day. 

What matter though the way be long? 

What though its patli be fraught with strife? 
Thy loving cheer will make me strong 

To do the irksome toils of life. 

What matter though the fierce winds blow 
And the deep thunders loudly roll ? 

Thy voice, sweet love, all soft and low, 
Becalms the tempest of my soul. 

What matter though, with wearied brain, 
I watch the day die in the West? 

Thy gentle touch dispels the pain 

And soothes my aching brow to rest. 

And so life's golden span appears 
More golden as the days pass by ; 

For, sweet my love 1 the gliding years 
But add new luster to thine eye. 

36 



WHAT MATTER. 



And when our setting sun's last rays 
All lurid make the evening skies, 

O then will Heaven's love-flames blaze 
Forth from the love-flres of thine eyes I 



m 



THE CRY OF THE TOILER- 



All through the day I work and I toil, 

Planning and building for men, 
Rearing a shelter for greed-gotten spoil. 

Resting and toiling again : 
And I cry : Is there never an end 

To this building for others to keep? 
To this toiling and earning for others to spend? 

To this sowing for others to reap? 

O this sowing for others to reap ! 

Was this hand created to fill 

The purse of the haughty and proud, 
Who crush and oppress me and curse me at will, 

And who feast and are merry, while loud 
Froin my poverished tenement rise 

The voices of hunger and cold? 
For my toil can not stifle the famishing cries 

At the pitiful price it is sold — 

O the pitiful price it is sold ! 

O I toil and I work and I toil 

From dawn till the coming of night ; 

For the rich and the mighty I work and I moil. 
Adding on to their riches and might; 

While the pittance this toiling hand earns, 



l^HE CRY OF THE TOILER. 39 

At the price of the sweat that I shed, 
Back agaui to their g-old-glutted coffers returns, 
To buy us a shelter and bread — 
For my loved ones a shelter and bread . 

Do the years as they come a.nd they go, 

The home of the Croesus despoil? 
Ah, no ! but they bring a new sorrow and woe 

To the hovel of him who must toil. 
But our hopes are not smothered : they spring 

In our bosoms anew, and we pray 
That soon shall our toil its full recompense bring. 

And oppression shall vanish for aye, 

O forever and ever and aye J 



THE CRY OF THE UNEMPLOYED. 



Do you hear the wailing" and weeping 

And the moans of the weak and unfed? 
Do you see the pale lips of the children 

That cry for a morsel of bread? 
And the babe as it nurses? a starveling, 

And yet in the cradle of life ! 
Do you note the thin cheek of the mother 

And the faltering step of the wife? 

•' 'Tis the home of the idler," you mutter. 

And bitterness tinges your voice ; 
Ay, sir, 'tis the home of the idler, 

But not of the idler through choice. 
You shudder once more at the moaning. 

And you look on the squalor again, 
And you turn in your anger to curse me. 

And to brand me accursed of men. 

IS ay, rail not in language so bitter: 

Though the children are hungry and weak, 
And worn is the mother and haggard, 

With the flush of disease on her cheek. 
More woeful my anguish and famine, 

For they sap and they gnaw at my life : 
'Tis the hunger of father and husband 

For the comfort of children and wife. 

40 



THE CRY OF THE UNEMPLOYED. 4l 

This hand is the hand of the toiler. 

And willing as aught 'neath the sun, 
And skillful, and strong are its sinews — 

But it toils not, for toil there is none. 
I have sought and I seek through the city 

But a chance for this hand once again, 
And I journey the highways and byways, 

But I seek and I journey in vain. 

Ay, sir, there is cold and there's hunger 

E'en down to the child at the breast; 
But the cries that you hear, and the moaning, 

Are the cries of the weak and oppress'd : 
This hand — it is willing and skillful. 

And if toil — honest toil —you bestow, 
There shall echo the anthems of gladness. 

Where now sound the wailings of woe ! 



GOD'S VOICE AND MAN'S. 



Ood said ; ''Go forth and toil, 

And lave thy brow in dew : 
For none shall feast but those who moiL 
And labor's sweat must steep the soil 

Where fruits untended grew." 

Man said : "Toil is a curse : 

And from this bane released, 
The sweat of slaves my fields shall nurse. 
Who, toiling, moiling for my purse, 
Must famish while I feast." 



42 



A WOMAN'S FAITH, 



•^He loves me— he loves me not;" 
And the petals fluttered down 

From the one bright rose she'd gathered, 
And were lost 'mid the leaves of brown, 

'^He loves me— he loves me not;" 

And she sighed, "Ah me! ah me!" 

While the wind caught the falling petals 
And tossed the^n over the lea, 

''He loves me— he loves me not;" 
And the crimson petals played 

And floated awhile in the sunlight, 
Then fluttered into the shade. 

''He loves me— he loves me not;" 

Then she flung the poor bud down. 

And under her foot she crushed it 
And hid it with leaves of brown. 

"He loves me not? he loves me not? 

'Tis a false tale that you tell, 
O rose, for I know my lover 

Loves me, and loves me well. 

"He has said it over and over. 
And his love is true, I know : 

For I have more faith in my lover 

Than in all the flowers that grow!'' 

43 



A FEAGMENT> 



One day Avhen my soul was lonely 

I searched a forgotten place, 
Where woven around were the cobwebs 

Like a netting of rare old lace. 

May be my soul in its longing 

Some truant solace had sought, 

May be that my vagrant fingers 
Had found that nook untaught ; 

But I came on a mouldering packet 

That burst 'neath my tremulous clutch, 

And I found 'mong its treasures a fragment — 
But it crumbled and broke at my touch. 

I remembered the packet was willed me 
By a friend of my youth when he died ; 

But ne'er the ribbon that bound it 
Till then had my fingers untied. 

I sat me down by my window, 

And the fragment I spread on my knee ; 
And I hastily scanned it, anxious 

To know what its tale might be. 

44 



45 
A FBAGMENT. 



1 saw 'twas an old, old poem 

He'd penned in his earlier years: 

It was yellow with time, and blotted 

And blurred with his passionate tears. 

Like a Stoic I read; for 'twas buried 
So long in that mouldering spot, 

The tale that it told was forgotten. 

Though the soul that inspired it was not. 

But a breath came up from my garden 
As I paused on a liquid rhyme ; 

And it seemed 'twas the breath of a summer 
I had known once on a time : 

A summer whose days were golden 
With the glow of his tender love, 

A summer whose bliss, if eternal. 

Must have rivaled heaven's above. 

Then swift came my thoughts upon me 
Like the violent rushing of waves, 

And out of the past rose visions 

Like ghosts from neglected graves. 

Of a sudden my soul was awakened. 
And memories came as I read, 

Such as come when you gaze at the garment 
Of one you have loved, and is dead. 

THE POEM. 

ug^eet was the breath of the even; 

Soft fell the gleams of the stars ; 
Bright were the eyes of my lady 

As we sang by the old meadow bars. 



46 IDLE SONGS AND IDLE SONNETS. 

''The song died away in the cedars, 
And a touch of her hand I stole, 

When forth burst the ravishing torrents 
From love's Aganippe — my soul. 

''I spake— could my bosom contain it. 
That love it had prisoned so long? 

Ask if tlie robin is silent 

When his soul is o'erflowing with song ! 

''I spake — and my tremulous whisper 
Into passionate eloquence grew ; 

I repea^ted the old, sweet story, 

But to her and to me it was new. 

"I paused; and the word was trembling 
On her lips that she strove to say ; 

And low bent my ear to hear it, 

When she softly whispered * * *" But stay! 

Why was thy hand so reckless 

When it touched this spot, O Time? 

And why did his tears in falling- 
Forever blot out his rhyme? 

May be it was best her answer 

Mine eyes were denied to see ; 
May be it was best his secret 

Forever a secret should be. 

I sighed, and the crumbling fragment 
Went fluttering down to my feet; 

But I think 'twas the tear of an angel 
That made it incomplete. 



MY TROUBADOUE. 



Sing me some sweet love-song to-night, 

The sweetest that you know ; 
A tender ballad of the past, 

A song of long ago. 
O sweetly sang the troubadour 

His tender lay divine, 
But never voice a love-song breathed 

That could compare with thine ! 

My brow is wearied with the toils 

Of life's all-busy mart; 
A burning grief has singed my soul 

And withered up my heart : 
But ah, a raptured tenderness 

Lives in thy voice to-night. 
And, singing, thou wilt soothe my soul 

And cloy it with delight. 

Be thou my troubadour, my sweet ! 

And sing to none but me ; 
And, listening, I will feel the fires 

Of ancient minstrelsy ; 
Until their kindling warmth shall make 

My heart with love-fiames glow, 
And touching, sacred like, my soul, 

Shall purge it of its woe. 

47 



48 MY TROUBADOUR. 

Then sing to me some sweet old song — 

A love-song of the past: 
O would the rapt forgetfulness 

It brings would always last ! 
But ah, I find full recompense 

In that sweet voice of thine : 
The love that prompts thy tender strain 

Is fathomless— like mine ! 



LINES. 



When Esther smiles it seems there comes the June-time, 

Laden with sweets ; 
And night — deep night ! — before the golden noon-time 

Swift retreats ; 

The winter blast adown my chimney blowing 

Ceaseth to blow ; 
The clouds dissolve, and by her smiles' warm glowing 

Melteth tlie snow ; 

With gradual voice the merry bird is singing- 
Down in the reeds ; 

And thyme-scents come, their sensuous wavelets bringing 
Over the meads ; 

For on her lips the smile of gladness playing 

Maketli my heart 
A world of joy, with only June-time staying, 

Never to part ! 

And so my life a summer's day, ne'er weary. 

Ceaseless beguiles ; 
For there can be no night, no winters dreary, 

When Esther smiles. 



49 



THE SHEPHERDESS' SONG. 



Awake, my song, for the clay gives warning, 
Bright in the east is the star of morning, 
On the quiv'ring grass the dew is sliining. 
While for one I love my heart is pining — 

My merrj^ shepherd lad ! 
I await his pipe far my heart is lonely ; 
I await his answering song, but only 
From the drowsy crags the echoes answer, 
Save down in the reeds a piping dancer. 

But not my shepherd lad ! 
O where have thy vagrant flocks been straying. 
And why is thy tune so long delaying? 

My merry shepherd lad ! 

Awake, my song, for the dawn's a-breaking, 
Down in the vale are the birds awaking. 
By the mountain hut is the watchdog baying. 
But what is the song of my love delaying? 

My merry shepherd lad ! 
Hark ! what sweets to my ears are creeping? 
'Tis his merry pipe as he comes a-leaping 
Down from the steeps with his sweet love story. 
While the bursting sun sheds a golden glory 

Around my shepherd lad ! 
O where have thy vagrant flocks been straying. 
And why was thy kiss so long delaying? 

My own true shepherd lad 1 

50 



BARCAHOLLf!:. 



Best thee, my gondolier, 

And drift thy barge but slowly: 
Pause, for her song I hear— 

And my lady's song is holy I 
O'er the responsive strings 

Her soft brown hand is sweeping. 
And her song the night wind brings, 

With its dreams, and wails, and weeping. 
How doth each cadence cry 

Like a soul in anguish yearning ! 
For me her warm lips sigh. 

And for her my heart is burning. 
Rest thee, my gondolier, 

Here where the reeds are clinging; 
Hush ! for her voice I hear— 

The voice of my lady singing I 

Rest thee, my gondolier. 

And let thy barge go drifting t 
For the gentle song I hear 

My soul to heaven is lifting. 
O would it were clasped in mine— 

The hand that wakes the viol ! 
But its notes and her song divine— 

They teach me self-denial 1 

61 



62 BARCABOLLE, 

From tiie sea the winds begin 

To roll the lazy surges : 
Let the pilgrim waves throb in 

O'er the gondola's low verges! 
Rest thee, my gondolier, 

Here where the reeds are clinging 
Hush ! for her voice I hear — 

The voice of my lady singing I 



BOAT SONG. 



Away, my bark, o'er the waters glide, 

With a la, la, la, and a heigh -la-ho! 
For thou bearest me to my lady's side, 

With a la, la, la, and a heigh-la-ho! 
Mv heart is light and the moon is bright- 
But what care I for the moon to-night? 
For my lady's gentle eyes will be 
Stars and the moon and the sun to me. 
Yo-ho! when their gleams upon me shine 
My soul will glow with a warmth divine ! 

Then away, my bark, o'er the waters go. 

With a la, la, la, and a heigh-la-ho I 

Away, my bark, o'er the waters fly. 

With a la, la, la, and a heigh-la-ho 1 
For I come my lady's window nigh. 

With a la, la, la, and a heigh-la-ho 1 
my heart is gay for the beacon light 
In her latticed window gleameth bright. 
Yo-ho ! she has heard my merry song 
As my gay-decked bark goes gliding along, 
And she beckons now from her open door ; 
Then splash ! and splash ! O my tardy oar. 

And away, my bark, o'er the waters go. 

With a la, la, la, and a heigh-la-ho ! 

53 



MAURINE. 



I dip my oar in the dark bayou, 
I look the vine-clung lattice through, 
And there behold my love so true, 
Maurine! Maurine! Maurine! 
The sweet magnolia sighs with me, 
I moor my bark by the cypress tree, 
And my guitar I touch to thee, 
Maurine! Maurine! Maurine! 
The woodbine, trailing 
' Thy lattice railing. 
Conceals thine eyes so blue, Maurine i 
Nay, do not hide thee. 
Come sit beside me, 
We'll drift the dark bayou, Maurine ! 

Let me but stroke thy glossy hair, 

Let me but kiss thy hand so fair. 

What with my bliss could then compare? 

Maurine! Maurine! Maurine I 
The stars reflect in the dark bayou, 
They found their gleams in thine eyes so blue, 
O come, we'll drift in my canoe, 

Maurine! Maurine! Maurine! 
The woodbine, trailing 
Thy lattice railing, 

64 



MAUBINE. 56 

Conceals thine eyes so blue, Maurine! 

Nay do not hide thee, 

Come sit beside me, 
We'll drift the dark bayou, Maurine ! 



SHE SANG TO ME. 



She sang to me in the moonlight 
A quaint old southern tune, 

And I know not which was softer, 
Her voice or the Tami^a moon ; 

But I know her song was sweeter 

Than the sweetest breath of June. 

A guitar she touched, but softly, 

And my oars kept time to her lay, 

While her light cadenza quivered 
On her lips ere it tripped away, 

And the moss-bound cypress answered 
As it soughed and dipped in the bay. 

She sang to me, and the music. 

As the southern moon hung o'er, 

And her mellovv" voice was echoed 

B;/ the swamps on the Tampa shore. 

Brought a calm to my troubled bosom 
It never had known before. 

Alas, that it must have ended! 

But now I am far away, 
And my heart is filled with a longing 

No voice hath power to allay. 
Till I find in my soul an echo 

Of that song she sang on the bay. 

56 



DONALD SO TRUE. 



How can I say farewell to thee? 

Donald, my Donald, so true! 
When parting's all but death to me, 

Donald, my Donald, so true ! 
Thy ship is lying in the bay ; 
Ah, when it carries thee away 
No more will Moray's hills be gay, 

Donald, my Donald, so true! 
Ah, thou art all of heav'n to me, 

Donald, my Donald, so true! 
How can I say farewell to thee? 

Donald, my Donald, so true ! 

How can I say farewell to thee? 

Donald, my Donald, so true ! 
Though knowing thoult return to me, 

Donald, my Donald, so true ! 
My tears, alas! my cheek shall burn, 
My heart shall bleed, my soul shall yearn. 
Till thou to Moray wilt return, 

Donald, my Donald, so true ! 
Ah, thou art all of heav'n to me, 

Donald, my Donald, so true! 
How can I say farewell to thee? 

Donald, my Donald, so true! 

57 



MARJOillEi. 



The woodbine sheds its sweet perfumes 

Where thick the brambles grow; 
The edelweiss on mountains blooms 

Amid a waste of snow ; 
But blossomed in this life of mine 

A flower more fair to see 
Than flower of snow or heather vine— ^ 

'Twas beauteous Marjorie. 

T met her in the south-land when 

The summer sun went down ; 
I had not dreamed of love till then, 

Nor dreamed of eyes so brown. 
Forth from her eyes a mellow light 

Burst like the dawn on me, 
And from my soul drove out the night—- 

Those eyes of Marjorie. 

I know not now the words I said 

To praise her hazel eyes : 
i only know her cheeks were red 

As any sunset skies ; 
And though her graceful brow was white 

And wondrous fair to see. 
Her hair was like the somber night— 

The hair of Marjorie. 

58 



MARJORIE. 

Her lips were redder than the rose 

That lay upon her breast: 
And yet her hand was like the snows 

Upon the mountain's crest. 
Her mellow voice, soft-whispered, filled 

My soul with ecstasy: 
And how her touch my being thrilled ! 

The touch of Marjorie. 

We talked of beauty, wealth and fame— 

All were beside me there ! 
I chided her upon her name, 

And yet I truly swear, 
No clime a fairer child could claim, 

Nor sweeter maid than she, 
Nor sweeter maid have sweeter name 

Than simple Marjorie. 

Alas, when ends a brief delight. 

How bitter is the pain ! 
I went far from those eyes so bright, 

And darkness came again ; 
And not a star was in the skies, 

Not one fair star for me, 
Save the sweet memory of her eyes— 

The eyes of Marjorie. 

Now often to the sunny laud 
My thoughts unbidden turn ; 

And for the touch of her small hand- 
That snow-white hand !— I yearn : 

And when my soul is filled with gloom 
Her eyes I sometimes see, 

And night dissolves and sun-gleams come 
At thought of Marjorie 



m 



A KENTUCKY SUNBISE. 



Faint streaks of light, soft murmurs, sweet 
Meadow-breaths, low winds, the deep gray 

Yielding to crimson, a lamb's bleat. 
Soft-tinted hills, a mockbird's lay. 
And the red Sun brings forth the Day. 



A KENTUCKY SUNSET. 



The great Sun dies in the west; gold 
And scarlet fill the skies ; the white 

Daisies nod in repose ; the fold 

Welcomes the lamb; larks sink from sight: 
The long shadows come, and then — Night. 



60 



THE ROSE AND THE THORN. 



I seek my garden for the rose 

That blossomed in the blushing morn; 

But lo, the twilight gleams disclose 
A bud of all its petals shorn, 
And 'neath it frowns the naked thorn I 



61 



THE WINTER'S TALE. 



What is the tale the Winter tells, 
With his falling snow 
And his winds that blow? 
''I place my blight on glens and dells ^ 
I lay the meadows bare and waste, 
I strip the heather on the fells 

And check the torrent in its haste ; 
I choke the river as it flows, 

I make the highlands desolate, 
I wind the forests round with snows 
And mark with ruin man's estate. 
Away ye imps of wind and snow, 

Across the land my banner fling ; 
Over the vales and highlands go. 
And tell all nature I am king!" 

What is the tale the Winter tells, 

With his cutting wind 

And his frosts unkind? 
''I know where cruel famine dwells, 

Where want prevails, where wail the weak ; 
I hang their eaves with icicles 

And round their doors I dance and shriek ; 
I fan to flame the hectic flush, 

Gaunt hunger sharpens at my breath, 
I seek the sick and faint, and hush 

62 



THE winter's tale, 63 

Their moanings with the touch of death. 
Away ye imps of wind and snow, 

Across the land my banner fling; 
Over and down the chimneys blow, 

And tell the people I am kingl" 



THOU ART SO FAIR- 



Thou art so fair the weakling pen 

Grows useless when it would compare 
Thy charms with those of maids and men— - 

Thou art so fair ! 
And faltering song falls on the air 

In feeble accents. Maid, O when 
My soul in Heaven's sweet notes shall share* 

And song in all its fulness ken 
Of flawless measure, then and there 

Thy charms I'll sing— but not till then— - 
Thou art so fair 1 



64 



I lovp: but thee. 



I love but thee ! Life's climax nears, 

And Time has set his brand on me ; 
And yet, through all the changeful years, 

I love but thee ! 
Look, look ! Beyond the peaceful sea 

How red the setting sun appears ! 
Ah, may our lives' declining be 

As peaceful, with the shining meres 
Reflecting Heaven's bright canopy. 

Unclouded by a mist of tears — 
I love but thee ! 



66 



LOW, LOW, 



Low, low, 

Over the grassy lea 
Cometh the wind at break of day, 

Cometh to you and me, 
Fresh with the scent of the fragrant hay, 
Bringing the sweets of the new-blown flowers 
Fraught with the dew^ of night's still hours, 
Low^ low , 

Over the grassy lea, 
Over the mead where the daisies grow, 

Cometh to you and me. 



Low, low, . 

Out of the forest deep- 
Cometh the wind at noon of day. 

Cometh from w^ood asleep. 
Where the great old oaks so grand and gray 
Bow and nod at the will of the breeze — 
O who can read the dreams of the trees?— 
Bringing the cool of the forest's shade. 
Bearing the scents of the rose-fraught glade, 
Low, low, 

Out of the forest deep 
Cometh so languid, soft and slow. 

Cometh from w^ood asleep. 



liOW, LOW. 67 

Low, low, 
Up from the crystal stream 
('Ometh the wind at eventide. 

When the glowing fireflies gleam ; 
While clinging e'er like a loving bride 
The voice of the falls is brought along, 
As she doleful sings her ceaseless song. 
Low, low, 
Cometh, when fireflies gleam, 
The wind and his bride from far below, 
Up from the crystal stream. 

Low, low. 

Out of the tangled wild 
Cometh the wind at dead of night, 

Like the wail of a long lost child ! 
Coming at times like a voice of fright. 
Oft as deep as the organ's swell. 
Sad as the notes of a funeral knell. 
Low, low. 

Out of the tangled wild, 
Weeping and sighing the night winds blow, 

Like the wail of a long lost child ! 



AUTUMN. 



The Autumn winds are wailing — sadly wailing! 

The woods are fraught with moaning and with sigiis ; 
In gullies deep the fallen leaves are trailing, 

The somber clouds have darkened all the skies. 

The maple groves are filled with yellow glory ; 

The sumac leaves have turned to red and gold ; 
While stands the stately oak, all gnarled and hoary, 

Guarding the forest like a knight of old. 

The lark no longer sings down in the meadow; 

The swallow skims no more across the lea ; 
Nor robin trills within the grove's deep shadow, 

And all the land is dismal as can be. 

O tell me. Nature, wherefore all this sadness? 

O tell me, woodlands, why is all this woe? 
And tell me, meadows, where is all your gladness, 

And why, O winds, ye wail so sad and low? 

^'Alas! the land is full of moans and sighing," 
The wind replied a-coming o'er the wold ; 

''For all of Nature weeps for Summer dying. 
And mourns and mourns— the Year is growing old I" 

Ah, thus with life when it is fast declining. 
And silver hairs are woven 'mong the gold : 

For all the past we never cease repining. 
And sigh to think that we are growing old ! 



DEATH OF DAY. 



Toll, toll, toll ! rang the Vesper bell, 

For the Day was dying ; 
Time's cruel spear fell, 

And in its flying 
Pierced his heart 
Like a dart 

Pierces the chamois fleet. 
That leaps 
O'er rugged steeps. 

Then falls at its slayer's feet. 

His heart was a-bleeding ; 

And his blood 

Poured forth in resistless flood ; 

And far o'er the Western sky, 

Far, far on high, 
Its crimson was a-spreading. 

The Day on his lowly bed 

Lay moaning and sighing; 
Soon the West-winds came and said 
The prayers for the dying; 
And then far, 

Far on high, 
An angel lit the evening star- 
The taper of the sky. 



70 IDLE SONGS AND IDLE SONNETS. 

Knell, knell, knell ! 
Rang the Vesper bell. 

For the Day was dead ; 

Then with mantles of mourning over them spread , 

Far o'er the land the Shadows fled. 
As messengers, to tell 

That Day at last was dead. 

Then like a loving child. 
With a whisper soft and mild. 

Pale Twilight came to the West ; 

And with fair arms young and strong 
Clasped him to her breast 
And held him long; 

While the Forest sighed 
For the Day that had died ; 
And, as the dark mantle over them crept. 
The Heavens wept, 

Shedding their dewy tears 

Like an aged man weeping o'er vanished years. 

Then the angels, weeping, 

Gazed on the dead sweetly sleeping ; 

And far, far on high 

They hung the flickering tapers of the sky. 

('ame with a solemn tread 
The black-robed Hours, 

Their mourning-weeds fringed with the gleams of 
the stars ; 
Softly a pall drew they over the dead. 
And then with footsteps light. 

While through the gloom and the dim 
The Vesper bell 
Tolled its parting knell. 
They took him and they buried him 
Deep in the tomb of Night. 



A THOUGHT. 



Tender and sweet were the words that he said 
Over the dust of the peaceful dead. 

Soothing the hearts of the weeping; 
The casket was sprinkled— each drop seemed a tear— 
And the clouds from the censer rose over the bier 

Where the beautiful child lay a-sleeping. 

The mist, as I listened, was swept from my eyes-, 

And it seemed that I saw through the veil of tlie ski(^Si 

Over which fleecy cloudlets were sweeping; 
And there in the far-away land of the blest, 
Reclining serene on the Bosom of Rest, 

The beautiful child lay a-sleeping. 

Then the presence I felt of a thought-angel near, 
And a whisper he tenderly breathed in my ear : 

'^Ah, wherefore this sorrow and weeping? 
O banish thy grief, and let sorrowing cease, 
For there on the heavenly Bosom of Peace 

The beautiful child lies a-sleeping." 

***** 
By the roses overgrown on the slope of the hill 
There's a little low mound, all peaceful and still, 

And round it the ivies are creeping: 
'Tis there that they bore her 'mid weeping away — 
There, waiting the dawn of the Judgment Day, 

The beautiful child lies a-sleeping. 

71 



GOD-SEEKING. 



I seek Him through sun and shadows, 

Through the mystic shadows, 

Over the meadows, 

Through marish and hollow, 

When evening comes and still is the voice of the marts : 

For Him my soul hungers and thirsts and longs and starts 

To fly away like the swift-winged swallow, 

But it flutters to earth again, for my soul is callow, callow! 

Ah, in the twilight. 

In the mystic twilight, 

Sometime — the sky bright 

With rays refracted — 

Ere the intangible darkness shall blind mine eyes, 

I will find Him, and in yonder Elysian skies, 

Full-fledged with the sweet grace He giveth, 

My soul shall soar away where He forever liveth ! 



72 



LEGEND OF THE WHITE ROSE. 



In the evening-tinted garden, near the convent gray and 
olden, 
Bloomed a Rose and bloomed a Lily, nodding to the 
languid breeze ; 
One the glowing sky reflected fringed with purple marge 
and golden, 
Wooed the sun's pale gleams the other, as they straggled 
through the trees. 

On them smiled the young Narcissus from the hederal 
carpet peeping, 
While the honeyed Thyme and Clover flung their 
odorous wavelets round ; 
But they woke not from their dreaming, neither roused 
they from their sleeping, 
For it seemed they dreamt and slumbered, gazing on 
the ivied ground. 

Softly from the chapel stealing came the sound of Sisters 
singing, 
And across the fragrant garden swept a sweet, melodious 
air; 
Lower drooped its head the Lily ; but the Rose, still nodding, 
swinging, 
Heeded not the music, bearing on its wings the Sisters' 
prayer. 

73 



74 IDLE SONGS AND IDLE SONNETS. 

When at last the hymn was ended and the answering Echo 
sounded 
From afar the last responses, to the Lily spake the Rose : 
''Fairest Lily, why so pensive? Is thy tender heart thus 
wounded 
By a simple strain of music touching it at evening's 
close?" 

Then unto the Rose the Lily spake with fervor and emotion : 
*'Sweet my Rose! I heard the fluttering that the wings 
of music gave, 
And I sought the prayers they bore me, drank them in with 
deep devotion. 
For to-morrow I will breathe them from a Sister's 
lowly grave." 

Spake the Rose then to the Lily : "Envied Lily ! Sweetest 
flower 
Ever Nature's garden yielded I Would thy sweets were 
on my bloom I 
For I yearn for such devotion that I might for one brief hour 
Breathe a prayer in the Churchyard from the Sister's 
humble tomb." 

Spake no more the Rose and Lily ; all about was hushed ; 
and nigher 
Drew the eve its grayish mantle; but the Rose was 
wrapt in thought. 
Soon a gentle footfall roused her: lo, there walked a Sister 
by her. 
On her beads devoutly counting prayers with deepest 
fervor fraught. 



LEGEND OF THE WHITE ROSE. 75 

Low the Rose then drooped and listened as the Sister oft 
repeated 
In a whispered tone and fervent o'er and o'er an earnest 
prayer ; 
Heard the Rose with rapt attention till the Aves were 
completed, 
Drinking in each word, and breathing e'er a perfume 
wondrous rare. 

Soon the Sister left, and lower drooped the Rose in medita- 
tion. 
While the Lily and the Ivy and the kindred Eglantine 
Looked into her face and wondered ; for the odorous ex- 
halation 
Of her dream made wondrous fragrant all in Nature's 
beauteous shrine. 

Spent the night in meditation thus the Rose ; and when the 
breaking 
Day came with its dewdrops sparkling like a million 
lustrous eyes 
Peeping forth from leaf and blossom, lo ! the garden in its 
waking 
Looked upon the Rose's beauty -looked in wonder and 
surprise ! 

For her blushes all were vanished, and in robes of perfect 
whiteness. 
Purer even than the Lily blooming by her, she was 
dight; 
And the dewdrops on her petals shone with wondrous sheen 
and brightness: 
Never star revealed such splendor through the mystic 
veil of night I 



76 IDLE SONCiS AND IDLE SONNETS. 

Came again the Sister praying, and in silent admiration 
Looked upon tlie Rose's beauty, breathed the sweets of 
her perfume ; 
Then she plucked the Rose and Lily, and still wrapt in 
meditation, 
To the Cliurchyard bore and iDlaced them side by side 
upon a tomb. 

All day long the spot was laden with their odorous ex- 
halation, 
As they breathed anew the prayers they had heard the 
night before ; 
When the twilight came, tho' withered, still their fragrant 
meditation 
Rose in odorous waves to heaven — for the Sister's 
prayers they bore. 

Morning came, and to the Churchyard came again the 
Sister bringing 
For the grave a Rose and Lily, each in snowy raiment 
dight; 
For the Rose's kindred listened to the Sister's prayers and 
singing. 
And they, too, lost their blushes and were changed to 
spotless white. 

Far the White Rose breathed her prayers, far her odorous 
devotion, 
Till her beauty and her fragrance over all the land were 
spread ; 
Now, whene'er the peasant sees her he will whisper with 
emotion : 
''Ah, the flower of wondrous beauty! she is praying for 
the dead 1" 



AN ABANDONED PLACE. 



A field all fallow : 

Sedge and the cockle grown wild o'er the way ; 

The riotous thistle and weeds 

Glutting the soil with their seeds ; 

The gaunt lynx seeking her hapless prey ; 

The loathed toad and unclean 

Dwelling the rush among ; 

And the water-snake darting its forked tongue 

Out of the pond with its scum of green. 

A house tumbling to ruin : 

The roof caved in, the gables burst out; 

The windows broken, the lawn unmown ; 

The fallen fence with weeds overgrown ; 

Vines run mad all round about ; 

The half-wild swine, famished and lean, 

Housed on the wet-warped floor. 

Where oft in the gay dance gliding o'er, 

Dainty feet, proud feet have been. 

Art thou the field all fallow? 
Art thou the house all ruin? 
O my heart ! O my soul ! 
Lest it be, beware ! 
Lest it be, prepare ! 

77 



78 IDLE SONGS AND IDLE SONNETS. 

With plow and blade make thy glebe all fair ; 

And thy house make whole 

With the tools God gives — as sharp and true 

As ever a skillful workman knew — 

And ruin and riot and rank decay 

Shall steal like the coward wolf away, 

Finding a master there. 



THAT WAS MAY. 



This is the same sweet spot, 

And yet some change is here : 
Dead is the gray old elm, 

And the brook runs not so clear; 
And the house, with its circling porches. 

Has fallen to sad decay : 
But this is the drear November, 

And that was the rose-sweet May. 

Here you and I once paused 

Beneath the mellow moon ; 
And we sang a song together. 

But it ended ah, too soon ! 
Now naught save the wind is singing, 

And the skies are dull and gray : 
But this is the chill November, 

And that was the fragrant May. 

I touched your slender hand 

And looked down in your eyes ; 
But a moist hung on your lashes. 

And your lips were sweet with sighs. 
Where now is that hand so tender? 

Like the mist it stole away : 
But this is the dark November, 

And that was the golden May. 

79 



8() IDLE SONGS AND IDLE SONNETS. 

This is the same sweet spot — 

But nay, 'tis not the same: 
Your hand stretched not to gi'eet me, 

Your lips called not my name ; 
Your voice rang not o'er the meadows 

As I came up the tangled way : 
But this is the bleak November, 

And that — ah, that was May! 



IN SOLITUDE. 



Here let me by the limpid stream 
Court Solitude, where noisy mart 
Finds no response, but the pure art 

Of Nature has its reign supreme. 

Far from the mad world's stern decrees 
A panting fugitive I fly, 
While wan Care, with her haggard eye, 

Who dogged me long, shrinks, turns and flees. 

And lo I from every nook appear 
A myriad Fancies : light of wing 
And fleet of foot they come and bring 

The ghosts of many a vanished year. 

I frown not, though their nimble feet 
Bring forth the satyr and the faun 
To sport across the woodland lawn 

And dance upon its emerald sheet. 

Here Melancholy sits, sweet maid 
Of pallid brow and flowing hair ; 
The wood nymphs found her in her lair 

And dragged her hither, half afraid, 

Half shrinking, for the satyrs dance 
In glee before her drooping eyes, 
And though her pale lips part with sighs. 

Their revel drowns her utterance. 

81 



82 IDLE SONGS AND IDLE SONNETS. 

Afar off, down the mystic vale 

A reed-voice cometh : from the stream 
The god Pan snatched it, and the dream 

Of mellow sound that steeps the gale 

Takes form, and lo ! a lovely maid— 

The pensive Muse — comes forth and lives, 
And while to Song her soul she gives. 

Sits dreaming in the somber shade. 

The gods have heard : they come, and prone 
They cast them at her feet ; then bear 
Her to the sun-tipped peak, and there 

They place her on a golden throne. 

She smiles ; and bard and poet throng 
With wild harp to her feet, and pour 
Their rhapsodies of love and war 

In one unbroken burst of song 

Upon the madly throbbing air. 

But why, sweet, heavenly Muse, rejoice? 

Too soon the arch-angelic Voice 
Shall falter at the touch of Care ; 
Shall cringe at Mammon's throne, and creep 

A groveling worm. Alas, too soon 

Thy fair Parnassus shall be strewn 
With rankling weeds from steep to steep, 

And heavenly sweets of sound and song 
That flood the cloud-protruding peaks, 
Shall drown beneath the stench and shrieks 

Of glutted vulture-beasts that throng 

The carcass of dead Art. And lo, 

The clamorous shouts and war's alarms. 
And clash and crash of Trojan arms 

Grow faint and fainter. Lost the glow 



IN SOLITUDE. 83 

Of Ori^lieus' lyre, that made its slave 

The dumb of Nature. Broken lies 

The oaten stop, while yonder flies, 
In haste, Silenus to his cave. 
And he who did the realms explore 

Infernal, lifting from the throng 

Of damned fiends, a heaven-lit song. 
Seeks his accustomed way no more. 

Apollo's lute is stilled ; the hair 

Is trailing loose ; and the sublime 

Full Voice that soared in God's own clime. 
Is lost upon the stifling air. 
Sluggish the Avon's flow: the roar 

Of wild Materialism's tide 

O'erwhelms th' immortal Voice that sighed 
And sang u]3on its shelving shore. 

And lo ! upon Parnassus' slope 

A myriad pigmies strive to climb ; 

The sweet narcissus and the thyme 
They wound and crush as wild they grope 
With eyes benighted up the steeps : 

They falter, fall; and at the base. 

With anguished voice and ghastly face. 
Implore the goddess as she sleeps 

Upon the summit. Is it sleep? 

Or is it death? If slee^D, O haste 

The hour of waking ! Let us taste 
Once more from out the hallowed deep 
Of thy sweet cup the nectar'd draught 

Which made the very gods with joy 

Inebriate ! Awake : destroy 
With thy all-withering scorn the craft 



84 IDLE SONGS AND IDLE SONNETS. 

And trade that barter in thy name 
The black, distorted infamies 
From which hell's shameless legate flies, 

Unused to such degree of shame ! 

Awake : dispel the hideous dream ! 

Cast off the nightmare that has bound 
Thee in its chains of darkness I Sound 

Thy dulcet strings, and let the gleam 

Of thy sweet eyes shine forth again 

Amid the waste that heaven may come 
Once more to earth, and drive the gloom 

And damp from out thy sacred fane I 

Awake : behold the leaden sky, 

O'erspread with mists ! Touch but thy string, 
And monstrous gloom shall all take wing 

Before thy melting melody. 

She waketh not I Her sacred lyre 

Responds no more 1 It is not sleep ! — 
Sweet Muse ! — For o'er yon golden steep 

The famished vulture marks his gyre ; 

The gaunt she-wolf with skulking tread 
Comes forth her ghastly prey to seek, 
And with long howl and hideous shriek, 

She tears the entrails from the dead 

To make her ghoulish feast, the while 
The vulture swoops upon his prey 
And holds mad revel. Woe the day 

When foul infection warped the smile 

Which wrapped those steeps in heaven-lit skies 
And filled with such celestial hymn 
The slopes, it drew the cherubim, 

Mistaking earth for Paradise ! 



IN SOLITUDE. 

And yet, methinks the vulture-beast 

But feeds upon corporeal parts ; 

The spirit lives ; the God of Arts 
Looks down upon th' unholy feast 
From His starlitten fields, and weeps ; 

For there, far o'er Parnassus' hight, 

In Splendor Beatific dight, 
He holds His reign ; nor dies ; nor sleeps ; 

But breathes into the glowing soul 
The fires of His own symphony, 
And bears her up that she may see 

The Source Divine, and catch the roll 

Of heavenly harmonies, and hear 

The notes eternal wing their flight 
Majestic through th' Elysian light 

From farthest orb to farthest sphere. 

There rules the Destiny of Song, 

And guides the faltering wings to rise 
Through the vast blue expanse of skies, 

And opes the lips that full and strong 

Breathe forth the choral strains that roll 
Reverberant on Ethereal shores : 
'Tis God's own hand ; 'tis His that pours 

The heavenly essence in the soul, 

And lips ordains with seething fires 

To rise o'er Splendor's steeps and sing, 
And hands anoints to smite the string 

In union with celestial choirs. • 

O Muse Divine I Eternal Muse 1 
If but the craven bird and beast 
On yonder Mount make ghastly feast 

Of Thy fair prototype, diffuse 



IDLE SONGS AND IDLE SONNETS. 

Into our barren souls a breath 

Of Thy eternal hymn, all pure, 

All sweet, that then we may endure 

This life, forgetting death is death. 

Song is not dead ! Throw off the pall ! 
He lives who taught the bard to sing. 
And gave his soul the silken wing 

To soar in realms Ethereal ; 

And gave him ear to catch the flight 
Of His celestial strains, and eyes 
To pierce the blue of azured skies 

And gaze upon Elysium's light. 

Song is not dead ! God lives ; and He 
Is all of Song and all of Art, 
Who breathes into the throbbing heart 

The fires of His divinity. 

It is the world gone mad ! and blind 
To the One Beautiful, she gropes 
In darkness up Parnassus' slojDes, 

And faltering, falls. O Muse, all kind ! 

Give her but sight that she may see. 

Give her but sound that she may hear, 
And make her strong to do and bear 

That she may scale the bights to Thee ! 

But she will not! And lo, the night 

Comes on without a twilight ; hoarse 
Bloweth the wind; the river's course 

Obscures in mists ; a palling blight 

O'erhangs the fading Mount ; nor sound 
Of pastoral reed nor shepherd's note 
Is heard, nor heavy thyme-scents float 

Adown the vale ; but the lean hound 



IN SOLITUDE. 87 

Bays at the feverish moon; and Woe, 

Gaunt-cheeked and hollow-eyed, and torn 
Her hair, comes forth to weep and mourn 

And pour her tears in silence. Grow 

The dense shadows denser. I strive 
For utterance ; I moan ; I sigh ; 
But through the mists can only cry. 

With trembling voice, "Forgive! Forgive!" 



THE NATIVITY. 



My flocks were safe within their wonted keep, 
When in the East I saw rise up a Star- 
Most wondrous Star ! — and felt the midnight hour, 

Throbbing with peace, in bliss exultant steep 

The world, and heard majestic chorals sweep 
With sound the joyous universe as far 
As the soul's sense could reach : as though some power 

Of Dream were on, without the power of Sleep. 

I started from my wakeful watch, and bore 

Me forth : a hand reached down (though by mine eyes 

Unseen, intangible, but felt,) and o'er 

Judea's hills, beneath the arching skies, 

It led me on, nor me released until 

I stood within a beast's mean domicile. 

II 

I paused beside the lowly manger where 
An Infant lay, newborn, upon the straw, 
In swaddling garments wrapped. Anear I saw 

The Wise Men prone in heaven-ascending prayer: 

I looked, and lo ! the Child was wondrous fair. 
August, serene : I felt the base earth draw 
Me down in homage, and with reverent awe 

1 hid mine eyes, such sight unfit to share. 

88 



THE NATIVITY. 

Then rose I up and said : So poor abode, 

And yet a Child of such divinity — 
Is this some holy prophet sent of God? 

Peace! peace! (the Wise Men whispered;) it is He, 
A Prophet, yea: but of Jehovah willed. 
The Prophecy of every age fulfilled. 

Ill 

Omnipotent, eternal, infinite, 

Such attributes are His if this is He, 
(I said,) Who holds the universe in fee 

For His creative touch ; and in Whose might 

The earth, the sun, the countless orbs of light — 
Successive chain of pond'rous majesty — 
Are but as bubbles, and what less are we 1 

Weaker than I, and I a parasite 

To that which came from nothing by His hand, 
If He this Infant on the meanly straw, 

Doth He not His infinity transcend 

In alien clay to wrap His boundless awe? 

How can it be? (I cried.) Peace! (came reply,) 

Behold the Child, and ask not How, but Why! 



GETHSEMANE. 



Infinite Sorrow pouring forth Thy tears I 

Lest we behold our sorrows magnified, 
And with despairing lips blaspheme the years 

That smite us sore, when but the fiesh hath cried, 
Of its own weakness, through th' impatient brine 

Of still less patient eyes, come we in thought 
To Thy grief's garden. Lord ! and unto Thine 

Our fullest woe how shrinketh it to naught! 
Thou infinite — we finite : Thou for all . 

The myriad myriads of Thy heart's love weeping, 
With love that hath no limit : we but fall 

Beneath one stroke of grief. Behold the deeping 
Of our soul's anguish, Christ! and teach us blend 
Our tears with Thine, full patient, to the end! 



90 



EASTER MORN. 



Bright casque and helmet glitter round the tomb, 
As to and fro the mailed sentries glide, 
Their vigil keeping near the Crucified ; 

The tremulous stars with ghostly gleams illume 

Their polished steel, and tint each nodding plume ; 
With ribald laugh His torn flesh they deride, 
And jest in whisper at His spear-rent side, 

Till dawn, approaching, melts the leaden gloom. 

Over the distant hills the glorious morn 
In splendor sends a myriad-tinted ray, 

When lo! the hand, by cruel nails all torn, 

The tomb unseals, the great stone rolls away, 

And, guards confounding, through the yielding door 

The risen Christ comes forth to die no more. 



91 



AUDUBON. 



I hear not ever a bird in melody 

Pour forth its little soul upon the air ; 

I see not ever a droning insect bear 
Its wings in dubious course, nor carry me 
Through field and forest, where God's minstrelsy 

In bounteous joy drowns every voice of care ; 

I smell not ever a blossom's perfumes rare, 
But comes a thought, immortal sage, of thee ! 

These were his poets, these his books: and each 
Taught him its secrets that he us miglit teach ; 

And that his labors were not spent in vain. 
Attest ye winds, that through the forest fiy, 
Attest ye children of the clear blue sky, 

Singing his praise in God's most beauteous fane! 



92 



DREAMS. 



I dreamed there were no dreams, but life was all 

A stern reality, with toil and sweat 
And feverish unrest. No castled wall, 

With groaning portcullis, and turrets set 
Upon its lofty hight, was builded in 

A visionary Spain ; nor glinting stream 
Flashed from a silver fount ; but all was din 

Of marts, and buzzing wheels, and hissing steam. 
And then mankind, bent with its heavy years. 

Went quickly to its grave, and hoary brow 
Yearned not for Youth's sweet Fount; while Pity's tears 

Ran down unpitied. Cried I then, "O thou 
Accursed world, hemmed in by hell's foul moat, 
Thou art all bane, with ne'er an antidote I" 



93 



MOB-FURY. 



Infernal Rage that killest in Justice' name. 

Her bench usurping, and with perjured hand 
Holding her sacred scales : shall this sweet land 

Rise never above thy black, rapacious shame? 

Thy savage deeds glow scarlet with hell's flame, 
And in thy murderous soul lay bare the brand 
Of foul hypocrisy : for thou darest stand 

Before thy God and pure intent proclaim. 

How long in servile impotence, O State, 

Wilt groan beneath these hellish infamies. 

Thine own power mocking? Lift thee up ! Be brave 1 
Thy laws make strong and prompt to operate. 

Swift in their course with him who law defies. 

And show the world thou'rt not the Rabble's slave! 



94 



THE TEMPEST'S VOICE. 



t saw tho night come down the mountain side, 

Draped in the vesture of black majesty; 

O'er sunless tracts the weltering clouds surged by, 
Dissolved, and formed anew, like a vast tide 
Shore lashing. The long thunders rose and died; 

And Jove tumultuous from his throne on high 

Hurled his fierce shafts athwart the vap'rous sky. 
Till the huge mountains trembled terrified. 
With roaring multitudinous then woke 

The storm: rocks, crags, by its rude hand were swayed, 
And stalwart pines were leveled by its stroke. 

As falls the wheat before the reaper's blade; 
While from the ruins came articulate: 
"How great Thou art, all-potent God! how great!" 



95 



THE SOUL'S PROGRESS. 



Methought I died : and from its keep set free 

My eager soul swept into Paradise. 

There saw I God: and God my spirit's eyes 
Did contemplate, and all in full degree 
Her gloried faculties. Him did I see, 

Even as He is, enthroned in the skies. 

Eternal, vast, omnipotent, most-wise, 
And all His radiant Light environed me. 
Nearer I drew : and straight, without desire — 

Even as the seed light flndeth, being sown — 

Each new beholding some new wisdom bore ; 
But though in endless progress high and higher 

Clomb I in wisdom toward God's beauteous throne, 
He grew the glorious mystery the more. 



96 



MOONRISE: AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 



Infinite night among th' eternal steeps ! 

But lo, above the peaks the great white moon 
Lifts up in splendor. The black gorges, hewn 
By flood and tempest, yawn below, while sleeps 
Th€ snow upon the summits. Gradual deeps 
The tranced quiet on the rocks o'erstrewn 
These spectral slopes, till the lost senses swoon 
Beneath the awful hush. Far down there leaps 
The seething torrent in the gaunt abyss, 

Gnawing the mountain's entrails. Soul do thou 
In yon capacious light heboid the bliss 

Presaging thine ! forgetting not, as now 
Beneath thee gapes the chasm terrible, 
If heaven is near, how deep, how black is belli 



97 



THE TWO CHILDREN. 



They both were children : one the pleasant lane 

Ran down and chased the gold-wingad butterfly; 

The other liniiDed tne road with inany a sigh; 
The one was Joy, the other — it was Pain ; 
And each did sing: this in a minor strain, 

That filled the air with blithesome melody; 

And each did beck me follow her; but I, 
All unresolved, wooed this, then that refrain. 
Slow-paced, I drew me where a mellow rhyme 

In a low key soft through the shadows stole. 
When lo ! a child stood singing by my side : 
And, "Who art thou, mellifluous Voice?" I cried. 
Answer, ye limbs, dead ere your natural time ! 

Answer, my heart ! and answer, O my soul ! 



TO A GRADUATE, 



Toil hath its laurels, labor hath its crown ; 
And truth it is that duties nobly done, 
Even in the humblest walks of life, have won 

More bays immortal, more unstained renown 

Than all the valorous deeds that echo down 
The storied past. Hath not the patient nun 
Within her soul more glory than the sun 

In summer solstice, in the mid-sky thrown? 

'Twas Duty led thee through Art's sinuous ways, 

Up Wisdom's toiling steeps— God's steeps— and now 
She comes with laurel wreaths to twine thy brow, 

And sings aloft with joyful voice : ''These bays 

Are thine for Art and Wisdom : God's shall be 

Tlie golden crown of Imortality I" 



99 



THE ABSENT ONE. 



Are we all here to-night? Nay, one is gone : 

One chair is vacant by the hearth. The bright 
Lone beacon in the window sheds its light 

In vain for whom we watch. So has it shone 

For weary months when the long day was done 
To homeward guide his wandering steps aright : 
He will not come— he will not come to-night ! 

And lo, how swift the gathering gloom comes on! 

Be comforted, my mother! He is here! 

I feel his hand smooth back my tangled hair 
In mild caress. I kneel me at his chair 

And hear him say, "My child ! my child !" in clear. 

Sweet accents. Come, my mother, come thou near! — 
But nay— sweet God !— I dream! He is not there! 



100 



THOUGHT'S INFINITY. 



Dense night and the broad earth ! The one devours 
The other's vastness. Thought, unbridled, flies 
Pulsing from these to the ininienser skies, 

And leaps to space, where through the solemn hours 

Majestic stars glide chorusing to stars. 

System to system, while strange harmonies, 
Order to wondrous Order singing, rise : 

And yet can space confine Thought's subtle powers? 

Not so: for lo, beyond the i)ale of iDlace 
Rapid and free it takes its eager flight. 

Out-tops tlie finite, mutable and base. 

The dimming suns, the fading stellar light, 

And mounting o'er th' immensity of space. 
Bows down at last before the Infinite. 



101 



IF THIS WERE ALL OF LIFE, 



If this were all of life— youth ever flying, 
Unceasing toil, unending pain, the tears, 
The anguished woes, the heartbreaks, the swift years 
With their great loads of sinning, wailing, sighing, 
The blasted hopes, the dark despair, the trying 
For objects ne'er attained, the shrinking fears, 
The famine, cold, the ribald laugh, the jeers, 
The ghastly dead, the struggles of the dying: 
If this were all of life, O thou Desire 

For the One Good which art most manifest 
Of those insatiate yearnings in my breast, 
I'd crush and tear and purge thee out with fire, 
I'd plunge me from the eyrie crags on high, 
And, craven beast, would will me but— to die ! 



102 



THE PRICELESS GIFT. 



If He, Who all life's gifts bequeaths, should say: 

"Thou art My favored child: speak thou thy will; 

At thy command are all the boons which thrill 
The mortal bosom, honor, power to sway 
Men's hearts with speech, a crown, a scej^ter, yea, 

Riches beyond compare, love, matchless skill 

In subtle arts, wisdom increasing till 
The world shall crown thee with th' immortal bay:" 
Unto the which I would give answer: "Soon 

Dissolve the powers which we do homage. Naught 
Of crowns be mine and none of wisdom, save 
To know Thee and Thy boundless good. I crave 
Of all Thy priceless gifts but this sweet boon : 

The grace, dear God! to love Thee as I ought!" 



103 



A THOUGHT ON DEATH. 



To think of death, to think of that long sleep 

Clasped in the cold embrace of clammy ground, 
The shroud immaculate our poor clay wound, 

Polluted, while through the burst casket seep 

The yellow waters, and in revel creep 

The carrion-worms our crumbling flesh around, 
Trailing through eyeless sockets, and the mound 

Above neglected, where were wont to weep 

Those who awhile remembered, then forgot: 

All this— yea, e'en forgetfulness — were not 
A doom so terrible, but for that one 

Dread thought of finding, when gaunt death we meet, 

Some task neglected, labors incomplete. 
Some heaven-imposed duty left undone. 



104 



A BEAD SUN. 



Methought I saw a Sun, massive but spent, 
Pendent in space, and round about it sped 
Black, lifeless orbs, like their great center — dead! 

With yawning chasms fathomless 'twas rent, 

Wherein a boiling, liquid lava pent. 

Fumed white, then glowed a mass of fiery red^ 
So deep imprisoned on its burning bed 

It had no power to light the firmament. 

The Sun had died : and death to him was death 
To all the great, majestic, stately spheres 

That circled round, lifeless, no light, no breath! 
And then I cried, as gazing on those biers 

I whither saw our own world journeyeth, 

''How many years, how many myriad years!'* 



105 



AT DEATH. 



Faint fluttering spirit struggling to be free ! 

I hear its wings against the prison bars 

Beat audibly. Lo, the deep darkness lowers ; 
But through the glooms the yearning soul can see 
The bounds of time merge in eternity, 

And patient watch keeps through the long night hours. 

O eager pinions, longing for the stars. 
In yonder ether soon your home shall be. 
Plume thou thy wings, sweet spirit ! Frail the chain 
That binds thee x)risoned. Ah, the hand were vain 

That strove to hold thee in so poor abode 
When freedom waits thee in Elysium's light. 
Sweet Christ! the chain bursts! tlie swift wings take flight! 

Go, gentle spirit, forth to meet thy God ! 



106 



THE HOUR OF PBAYER. 



In ocean's arms the sun swoons in the west; 
A holy quiet steeps the dewy air, 
Save over earth, sea, sky and everywhere 
Soft murmurs steal, half uttered, half suppressed, 
Lulling the world to reverie and rest : 

'Tis Mother Nature pouring out in prayer 
Her ravished spirit. Silence : let us share 
This sweet devotion on our mother's breast* 
For prayer— what is it? But the weak reflection 
Of Divine Beauty through our frail perfection ; 

And this I see in Nature day by day ; 
But when comes gentle evening, earth, sea, heaven. 
Paint full the glories unto Nature given ; 
And we are part of Nature : let us pray ! 



107 



A FIRST LOVE. 



I learned to love her while in tender years ; 
God gave her to me, and as I caress'd 
He? fair, sweet brow, and took her to my breast, 
And heard her gentle whisper in my ears, 
Soothing with song and joyous lute my fears 
Of life's vicissitudes, I closer press'd 
Her to my throbbing bosom, and was blest 
With her sweet breath, sweet smiles, and sweeter tears. 
I loved her then, and so I love her now ; 

Each passing year has made my love the stronger ; 
And but for her light touch upon my brow 

My griefs were greater and my toils were longer. 
She was my first love, she whom God hath given- 
Music's her name, my life, my soul, my heaven! 



108 



HER EYES. 



Two orbs there are in this one world of mine, 

Wliose bright effulgence floods it with a light 

That pales the sun, and makes my world more bright 
Than all the blazing spheres in heaven that shine ; 
Filling that world with such a warmth divine 

No blasts of winter can its love-fields blight ; 

Nor has it stars, for there can be no night. 
No gloom, where beam those lustrous orbs of thine. 
One zone, one season, one perpetual day. 

No flitting clouds to dark the azure skies. 
No killing frosts my sweet love-flowers to slay. 

Such is my world, such is my paradise ; 
And if sun-worship be my creed, I pray 

Thou chidest not: my suns are thy bright eyes. 



109 



THINE IMAGE WAS ANEAB. 



Thiue image was anear me yesternight, 

So like thyself, thyself it was, methought: 

The tear that from thy brown eye sprung, was caught 

Upon thy ebon lash, and shone as bright 

As when in youth thou cam'st, thy pure heart light 
With buoyant love, and, all-confiding, taught 
My soul the rapture love in thee had wrought. 

Till in Love's books I grew most erudite. 

I looked to see the rose-sweet crimson rise 

To thy pale cheek when I did call thee fair. 

And I pronounced thy name thrice full and loud ; 

But lo, a void was all before mine eyes. 

Nor came an answer from the empty air — 

Naught save the hollow rustling of a shroud* 



110 



LOVE AND LIFE. 



A hermit I, within my own heart sealed, 

Shut out the splendor of the noon sun's light; 

A pessimist, I deemed the world a blight 
And life a curse. Pleasures to me appealed 
My lone cell to forsake ; I would not yield, 

But in my living death embraced the night 

Of loveless being, shutting from my sight. 
The heav'n of love to other eyes revealed. 
But through a crevice stole a golden ray ; 

I strove to keep it out; it touched mine eyes. 
And, blinded, I the curtain tore away, 

When lo ! a radiant flood from Love's sweet skiea 
Burst on my life, turned darkness into day, 

And changed my cell into a paradise ! 



Ill 



AN IDLE MOMENT. 



Irresolute I walked a mountain way 

And plucked the wild-flowers idly as I went, • 
Careless in thought, for on no mission bent, 

Save from the city's noisome marts to stray, 

I wandered aimless as a child at play. 

And scarce took heed of my environment, 
Pausing to joy the hawthorn's languid scent, 

Or hark to some sweet wildwood roundelay. 

Then all was peace : the robin's voice was stilled ; 
Nor mellow gurgle woke the soulful thrush ; 

Nor wind was moving, trees were motionless ; 

And as my soul the tranquil quiet filled, 

I bowed my head beneath the holy hush, 

Lost in the tranced charm of nothingnesi. 



112 



NIGHT'S PRELUDE. 



I heard the busy voices of the day 

Grow faint, then fall to silence : all was still ; 

Save from the \vood a plaintive whip-poor-v/ill 
Called to his mate, and a lone bee astray 
Amid the clover droned. The ceaseless lay 

Sung by the wheel a-turning at the mill 

Its echo sent; and a lone robin's trill 
Rang from an elm, then softly died away. 
Then from the fields and lakes and all around 

A myriad piping voices sent their call, 
Deeping the silence with their hollow sound ; 

While o'er the world Night spread her solemn pall. 
Betimes her reeds celestial strains let fall. 
With all their measures filled with peace profound. 



•113 



THE PASSING OF SUMMER. 



I saw her in her richest robes, all dig:ht 

In jeweled verdure sparkling in the morn, 
Laden with fruits by vine and orchard borne ; 

Heather and wold with golden-rod were bright. 

And with the woodbine redolent; and white 

The daisies blossomed where the meads were shorn, 
While o'er the fields there waved the rustling corn : 

So with each day she brought some new delight. 

She plenty bears for every seed we've sown ; 
The fruits she nurtures ripen day by day ; 

Fed by the dews, her grain has golden grown— 
Its tints were stolen from a Summer's ray. 

Rich are her gifts, but when her task is done, 

She Autumn brings— then gently steals away. 



114 



